


The Chronicles of Bank Heist Boy

by Lemobas



Category: Bank Heist Boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemobas/pseuds/Lemobas
Summary: Our intrepid hero, "The Boy", travels about the country robbing banks and breaking himself and others outta the clink, as he's followed around by a monologuing Sam Elliot and the ghost of his past boss and FPS Russia impersonator, Makarov, as well as a roving rogue's gallery of sometimes zany and always homicidal roadie's, tramps, and tweakers alike.





	The Chronicles of Bank Heist Boy

My breath stopped at the bandana I’d placed over my mouth and nose, wafting upwards and clouding over my corrective lenses. ‘I can’t fucking believe that this is what I decided to spend my night off on. This shit.’ Next to me Mikkel was trying to look all chill, even though I knew that motherfucker was scared shitless, leaning up against the elevator wall there, hockey mask serving to cover up what I knew was crippling anxiety, god knows why we decided to bring him along. ‘Course Yuri, that fucking freak, was muttering to himself about how much of a fucking rush it all was. This other dumbass, the de facto leader of our little cadre, calling himself Makarov, (yeah fucking right), says “Remember, no Russian.” In the phoniest fucking FPS Russia voice, guy sounds like he’s from Southeast Ohio for christsakes, soon as he finishes quoting fucking Call of Duty, the doors open and *CRACK* sound of a gun going off, then wham, ‘bout five pounds of blood and grey matter interspersed with little bits of skull splatters my face, cocky bastard got his head blown off five godamn seconds into our little heist. And of course our cover was blown right from the start, was there any doubt that the heavies would be waiting for us? I look down and Makarov’s body is twitching on the floor in its final death spasms, and of course the body is already pissing itself, great job Makarov, ya fuckin’ halfwit, this is the legacy you’ll leave behind, a headless corpse staining the elevator carpet with blood, piss, and shit as royalty-free pop music plays. I’m yanked back to reality as Yuri starts fucking cackling and yelling “Time to pony up assholes!”, then this other dumbass, Madsen starts screaming “Kill or be slaughtered! Kill or be slaughtered!” Before getting shot about fifteen times in the chest and head. Mikkel is cowering in the corner of the elevator, wetting his pant as Makarov’s brain juice gets all over his white Nikes. All the while I was just standing in the elevator doorway, swept up in a combination of muted shock and disgusted cynicism. When I looked over at Yuri getting beat the fuck out by the cops, I knew that it was all over, I raised my hands and said “Hey I’m just the delivery boy.”, 'course that stumped the cops for a moment, making 'em wonder just why the hell a bandanaed bank robber would profess himself to be a delivery boy, either that or they were wondering why a guy who had just seen his comrades riddled with a metric shitload of bullets was quoting Shrek as he's standing in a fresh pool of blood and brains. Of course, knowing that these halfwits must have less IQ points than the grand sum of the fingers on the two hands I had raised up, I knew that saying some inane and vaguely stupid bullshit like that was liable to net me some time to retaliate for the brutal murder of these ill-fated comrades of mine. Now I could've pulled my Beretta 92FS Inox out of the front waistband of my pants, and started laying down some gunfire, but I saw how well that'd ended up for Yuri and Madsen, and I didn't particularly want to be turned into a slice of Swiss fucking cheese. The logical option then, was to jump out the window, now I had always considered this as an option while in school, but this time I was doin' it to live, so hopefully there was something soft down there to cushion the fall. Right as the heavies were startin' to recover I ran for the window and leaped out, my last view of their faces, a tableau of shocked horror as they stretched out their arms as if to catch me, broken glass stinging my cheeks and the brightness of the sun after the neutrally toned bank lobby serving to blind my eyes. After my momentary lapse of visual acuity, I looked around me as I careened out of the window, the halo of glass shards and the snow flakes dancing towards the icy street below seemingly frozen in time. Right on time, I happened to notice a large red banner suspended above the street, I managed to grab onto it with sluggish arms, but my momentum proved too much, and I felt something within my shoulder tear, the momentary stop only serving to flip me around at an even more awkward angle, but as I took more stock of my unfortunate situation, this seemed to be the least of my worries. I realized then my the shocked looks of the cops wasn't due to me getting away, but rather because of the unfortunate situation at hand, which was that I hadn't thought to actually think of just how high I was going to be above dear, blessed sea level. As it turned out, I hadn't jumped out of the second story window, or even the third, I had just leapt out of the sixth story fucking window. My last memories were of random bystanders turning towards me as I dove towards the back of a flatbed truck like a coffin, while I thought of what a massive prick my stepdad was.


End file.
